Good Medicine
by Laurie M
Summary: Post 'TOW All The Rugby'. Rachel picking Chandler up from the airport is an act of friendship; what happens after that is something else entirely.
1. Act One, Scene One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Friends_ or any characters therein - I'm just playing with them.

Author Note: After the, quite frankly astonishing, success of my first story for this fandom, we're back with more. This is not a sequel, just another variation on the possibilities of a Chandler-'n-Rachel courtship dance. We pick up after _The One With All The Rugby_; as always, I hope that you enjoy it and feedback is appreciated.

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**Good Medicine**

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_Act One: The One With The Airport Pick-up_

_Scene One: The Short Straw_

Chandler used his shoulder as a battering-ram, edging his way around the group of wildly-gesticulating people and headed towards the concourse. Beads of sweat rolled down his back, shirt sticking to him; he was fairly sure that they deliberately sucked all the oxygen out of the interminable grey corridors; nothing else could explain the stuffiness, the way every breath felt like taking syrup into his lungs. He shook his head sharply, clearing it, hitched up his bag again and pushed forwards. The doors slid open and a wisp of cooler air played teasingly across his face.

Home again. He felt like kneeling down and kissing the ground. That would probably not make him popular with the people behind him trying to get past, though. Chandler scrubbed at his eyes, peered blearily at the crowds, trying to find Joey. He scanned the unfamiliar faces, the expectant expressions, the pretty girl waving in his direction- His eyes came back to her. The pretty girl waving at him and actually calling his name, her voice barely discernible over the hubbub. He moved towards her.

'Joey, you've changed.'

Rachel rolled her eyes. 'You haven't.'

He grinned at her. 'What are you doing here?'

'Joey had an audition, so I-'

'Drew the short straw.'

She breathed heavily down her nose. 'Volunteered.'

Chandler scrubbed at his face again, offered her a conciliatory smile. 'Sorry. It was the flight from hell.' His entire body still felt cramped, too many hours spent squashed into the stupidly tiny seats. Rachel's face softened as she looked at him.

'You look tired. Come on, I've got Phoebe's cab.'

His eyebrows went up. 'She's letting you drive?'

'She-' Rachel bit her lip. 'Okay, she doesn't actually know; I mean, she did lend it to Joey and he...'

'Leant it to you. Eh.' Chandler shrugged, took her arm. 'You can't be any worse a driver than Phoebe.'

'Hey!'

ooOoo

Rachel navigated the streams of traffic, squinting at the signposts over the bridge and settling into a lane. She glanced, briefly, at the figure slumped in the passenger seat, all rumpled clothes and long limbs.

'So, how was Yemen?'

He sighed. 'Yemen... Yemen sucks.'

She laughed lightly. 'That's a great description there.'

'There's really not much to describe, y'know? It's like someone took a pile of rubble and said, "Hey, let's build another pile of rubble on top of that and people can live in it!" '

'It can't be that bad.'

He turned to her. 'Have you ever been to Yemen?'

'Uh...'

'Didn't think so. When you go to Yemen, you get to comment.'

She shifted gears, slowing. 'What did you do there?'

'It's been less than forty-eight hours, Rach, this wasn't exactly what we'd call a long-term thing.'

'Man, you are cranky when you've been flying.'

He propped his cheek against hand. 'Again - sorry. I'm just tired. The very nice lady sitting next to me on the flight out, who didn't speak any English, by the way, took me home with her, her family slaughtered a goat and I think, I _think_, I'm now married to one of her daughters.'

Rachel started laughing, helplessly, forcing her eyes wide. Beside her, Chandler let out a strangled yelp, grabbed the wheel, holding them steady.

'Oh my God, we are going to die on this bridge.'

'I'm sorry,' she gasped, 'I'm sorry, it's just-' She blinked rapidly, took a few breaths. 'I'm sorry, but, honestly, this could only happen to you.'

Chandler released the wheel, folded himself back into his seat and said conversationally, 'I'm glad that the train-wreck I like to refer to as my life is a source of amusement for you.'

'Oh, sweetie...'

She glanced at him; he had his eyes narrowed at her. She glanced again: still narrow. Another glance and he couldn't do it anymore: he smiled at her.

'See? I knew I'd get you in the end.'

'Well, you don't play fair,' he said, 'plus, y'know, I'm really easy.'

'Gee, you sure know how to sweet-talk, Chandler Bing.'

'It takes years of practice. Uh, Rach?'

'Yuh?'

'You know where the brakes are in this thing, right?'

'Yes.'

'Then will you please use them?'

'Wh- Oh!' She stopped abruptly, throwing them both forward. Rachel tossed the hair out of her face. 'Sorry about that. Chandler, you can open your eyes now.'

He shook his head vehemently. 'No, nu-uh, no way. They are staying closed until we get home.'

'Baby.'

'No, just a man who has suddenly found religion.' His eyes were still screwed tight.

Muttering under her breath, Rachel put the cab into gear, eased them on their way.


	2. Act One, Scene Two

_Scene Two: Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better_

No shower had ever been sweeter, Chandler decided, getting rid of the last vestiges of foreign country, sweat, plane, more sweat and the sticky soda residue that had been sprayed over him by the man sitting next to him on the flight back.

Clean clothes, his own things. He reflected that there was a chance - a good one - that his spirit of adventure had been surgically removed at birth, but he could live with that. He padded across the apartment, relishing its size, its space, its view across the Village.

That done, he went in search of company.

'Hey.'

Rachel looked up from the sofa. 'Hey.'

He closed the door, took a step into the apartment and found what he could only call a hole where the floor used to be. 'Love what you've done with the place - what's with all the pictures?'

Rachel grimaced. 'Monica.'

'Ah.'

'That's easy for you to say! Look; look!' She stormed across, snatched two of the pictures off the walls. 'I have to live with these holes! I have to live with these walls! I have to live in this apartment! I mean-' she waved her hands, Monica's colourful pictures flapping '-how do you even _make_ all these holes in a wall?'

Chandler shrugged. 'Well, they were mainly Spackle anyhow.'

Rachel blinked. 'What? Why?'

He shrugged again. 'Hammer Darts.'

She blew out a breath, rolling her eyes, let the pieces of paper slide gently to the ground.

'Where is everyone, anyway?'

'Joey not home, huh?'

'Unless he's turned invisible, I'll go with no. If his audition went well he'll be celebrating by having sex; and if it went badly he'll be getting over it by, y'know-'

'Having sex?'

'Yup. It's kind of his answer to everything.' He paused. 'So, that's the Joey non-mystery solved, what about the rest?'

'Uh, Monica's out. Phoebe... Anyone's guess.' She smiled tightly. 'Ross is, no doubt, with Miss England.'

'Ah, those damn Brits coming over here and stealing our men.' He watched her flop onto the sofa again, stare moodily at nothing. 'What about you?'

'What about me?' Sharp.

'I mean, why are you in and not ... doing whatever it is you crazy kids are doing these days?'

'I-' She rested her head against the back of the sofa. 'I don't have a date. I have no prospect of a date. God, this _sucks_. And it's pathetic.' She eyed him. 'What about you?'

'Uh, I just got back from fake-moving to Yemen - oddly enough that left me very little time to rustle up a date for tonight.' Joey, he thought gloomily but without rancour, would have left with a date. Joey would have left with dates for every night of the coming week and the one after that. Joey would have had left with all of those dates _and_ had sex with the hot flight attendant before they'd even touched down. He settled on the arm of the sofa, reached across and lightly tapped her knee. 'Hey, just think: no matter what happens you can always be sure that anything you can be pathetic at, I can be pathetic-er.'

A pause; she tilted her head at him. 'I can do anything more pathetically than you.'

'No, you can't.'

'Yes, I can.'

'No, you can't.'

'Yes, I can.'

They smiled at each other.

'Okay, that's it.' Rachel stood up, clapped her hands together. 'I hearby call an end to the Pathetic Losers Association - we're going out.'

He put his eyebrows up. 'We're going out? Together?'

'Well, that would make the "we" part a lot easier. Come on, Bing.' She grabbed hold of him, grabbed her purse, started for the door.

'Uh, Rach-'

'No, no, we are going out and we are going to have fun.'

'Uh, yeah, that's great, but-'

'No! No "but", no.'

At the head of the stairs; he grabbed hold of the balustrade, finally halting her relentless motion. 'Okay, we can go out but first, I need my wallet; and second ... no offence, but your hair is... Well, Pippi Longstocking comes to mind.'

Rachel's hand flew to her hair; her eyes, rounded with horror, turned on him. 'Oh my God!' She ran back to the apartment, let herself in and slammed the door. Chandler waited, counting back from five, got to two and-

'Give me twenty minutes to get ready, _then_ we're going out.'

The door slammed shut again. Chandler smiled to himself.

ooOoo

'Okay, one more.'

'I don't know-'

'Hey, this was your idea!'

'Oh... All right.'

Salt, tequila, lemon.

Rachel's eyes watered and she coughed, placing the shot-glass back on the counter. 'Okay-' She shuddered again involuntarily, certain that she would never get rid of the taste. 'Okay, here's what I just don't get. The last time you and Janice were together you were so crazy about her.'

Chandler nodded. 'I know.'

'I mean, you would have done anything, _anything_, to be with her. And you were so bummed when she left...' She hit him on the shoulder, frowning. 'What happened to that?'

He shook his head. 'I don't know. I remember how it felt, and it's kinda like it happened to someone else. I loved her so much... And-and I was actually thinking about marrying her, about building a life with her; but when I saw her again, it was like none of that had ever happened.'

Rachel propped her cheek up on her hand, leaning against it heavily. 'How do you do that?'

'What?'

'Stop loving someone?'

'I-' He sighed, looked at her sadly. 'I don't know, Rach. I don't even know how you start, so stopping? I guess it either happens or it doesn't - same way you can't make someone love you if they don't, or you can't make yourself love them back.'

'It would be so great if you could.'

'It would.' He examined his empty shot-glass. 'My life would look ... probably more like Joey's, really.'

'Oh...' Rachel straightened up. 'You don't to be like Joey! Don't get me wrong, he's a sweet guy, he's really sweet, but all that - just one girl after another?'

'Oh yeah, you're right, all that meaningless sex with beautiful women is really destroying his soul.'

'But it is! It will!' Rachel grabbed his shirt-front, pulled him closer, gazing at him urgently. Music from the sound-system pulsated, deafening, rattling the glasses behind the bar; it vibrated through her. She raised her voice, speaking close to his ear. 'You're the one- You're the guy who was looking for a real relationship, y'know, something deep and-and wonderful, and- And you know that sex with someone you love, someone you really, really love and care about is so much better than ... _hundreds_ ... of-of...uh...of...'

'One night stands?'

'Yes! Yes, _so_ much better than that. You know that. 'Cos you could have any girl in this bar, Chandler Bing, but you don't because you are a decent guy and you care about the girls you're with. Do you know how rare that is?'

He peered at her, those eyes that were strikingly, vividly blue. Deeply blue. Has his eyes, she wondered, always been that particular shade? And if they had been, what was the particular reason she had had for never noticing before?

Chandler placed his hand over hers, gently relieving it of his shirt. 'You're really sweet.' His fingers were still curled around hers.

She grinned at him idiotically. 'You know what we need?'

'More tequila?'

'_Way _more tequila!'

ooOoo

Playing pool, Chandler thought, was an awful lot easier when the balls kept still. He closed one eye, narrowing the other, staring hard down the length of the cue. It didn't really help with the motion, but at least now there was just the one ball instead of two. He steadied himself, made the shot.

'And that's how it's done!' Somehow, more by luck than skill, the ball had ended up almost exactly where he had wanted it.

'Okay. Okay.' Rachel nodded, leaning heavily against her cue. 'Okay. I can do that.' She bent over the table, brow furrowing, balancing the cue awkwardly.

'Here...' He leant across, repositioning her fingers; they were pliant, obedient in his. 'And you just need to be closer, uh...' He took hold of her hips, pushing her towards the table; she sighed slightly, pushing her hips lightly back into him. He caught his breath and took hold of the cue, his hand just above hers. Her hair tickled his face, the warmth of her skin rising from the curve of her neck.

The balls skittered across the table, knocking into each other. Rachel turned her face to his, one corner of her mouth turning up. 'And that's how it's done.' Voice smoky, like her eyes, and both laden with mischief.

Chandler released her, straightened up, looked down at her. She smiled back, squeezed between him and the table, her body pressing hard against his for a moment. Back at her end of the table she was smiling again; they watched each other for a while, then her head tilted.

'Are we playing or not?'

'Oh yeah,' he said, 'we're playing.'


	3. Act One, Scene Three

_Scene Three: Hands-Free_

They zig-zagged across the pavement, his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist.

'This street is really really long. Has it always been this long?'

'I dunno, maybe it just takes twice as long to walk it when you have twice as many feet.'

'Nah.' Rachel shook her head. 'Nah, that's not it, 'cos if there are twice as many foots ... feet ... it should take _half_ the time.'

'Yeah, but you're feet keep standing on my feet and that's really slowing down my feet slowly.'

'No, you're standing on mine.'

'No, you are standing on mine.'

Rachel stopped abruptly, yanking Chandler back when he continued walking. 'Hey, haven't we already walked this bit of street? But, like, the other way?'

'Uh...' He looked at it, hard, then laughed. 'Hey, you know what we did? We turned right around, yes we did, and we're walking backwards.'

'No, we were walking forwards; _this_ is walking backwards.' She stumbled, clung onto Chandler's arm and hauled herself up again. 'You're strong.'

'Yeah, I work out.'

'No, you don't.'

'No, I don't.' He grinned at her. 'Okay, we're going this way.'

She groaned. 'But this street is _long_.'

'Do you want me to carry you?'

'Uh...'

His shoulders slumped. 'Oh my God! Fine, hop on.'

Her arms around his neck, knees gripping his hips, Chandler started down the street, walking carefully while he balanced his new burden. Rachel hiccuped gently down his ear, her breath tickling the back of his neck.

'This is nice.'

'Well, as long as you're happy.'

He shifted her weight, gripping her behind the knees and hoisting her up a little. Her skin was so soft, the awareness of that fact slicing through his mind, her skin so soft and her legs firm, the muscles taut under his hands. And she giggled again, and again her breath was against his neck. And he concentrated very hard on putting one foot in front of the other.

_ooOoo_

Each step he took rocked her slightly; the motion was soporific. Rachel rested her cheek against Chandler's shoulder and found her eyes dragging shut. She opened them, held them wide. He didn't seem much hampered by the additional weight, still walking steadily. His body was surprisingly solid despite his rather lean frame. She became very aware of the breadth of his shoulders, of the feeling of strength running through them. The baggy bowling shirts and sweater vests hid a lot, she thought vaguely; even more vaguely thought that it would be fun to dress him up, show off all the things he let so few others ever see. The thought became less vague.

His hands moved against her thighs again, sliding slightly higher, then settling back in the hollows behind her knees, his fingers pressing into the tender skin. She bit down on her lip, holding it between her teeth, breathed in his aftershave - a warm, homely, rather old-fashioned scent. The scent of gallantry. Her knight in knitted sweater-vest. She laughed to herself.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

She nestled into his neck, surrendered the fight against keeping her eyes open and gave into the sole sensation of his body against hers.

_ooOoo_

He refused to carry her up the stairs. Considering the circumstances, Rachel could hardly object, but when she slithered down his back, and stood away from him, she felt cold after the loss of his comforting contact and she resented that.

He searched his pockets for his keys, turned wondering eyes on her. 'Do you have your keys?'

'Uh...' She peered into the shallow depths of her purse. They seemed to be lacking any key-shaped objects. She turned her gaze, wide-eyed and apologetic, up to his.

'Excellent.'

'You really can't find yours?'

'Maybe they fell out somewhere en route.'

She stared at him in distress. 'How? How could they fall out? And how could you not notice?'

He blinked. 'Kinda had my hands full at the time.'

'Oh. Yeah.' She felt a flush spread through her body. She looked away from him and his still startlingly blue gaze. 'Ooh, we should look over here!' She wandered over to the area illumined by the street-lamp.

'Uh, why?'

'Because this is where the light is.'

He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. 'Yeah, okay.'

Heads close together, they examined the circle of light.

'Hey, don't you think that piece of gum looks like Elvis?'

'Nah, I'd say more Johnny Cash.'

'Huh... Yeah, actually, from that angle you're right.' A pause. 'I still can't see the keys, though.'

'Stupid keys.'

'Did you look in this pocket?'

'Which- Hey, Rach!'

He squirmed, trying to evade her slender, grasping fingers. They slid out of his pocket and she beamed at him triumphantly, silver keys dancing in the lamp-light.

'See? I told you we'd find them if we looked over here.'

He studied her, frowning. 'Y'know, I'm pretty sure there's a logic problem here, I mean, logically speaking, but I just can't think what it is.'

They bolstered one another up the stairs, making it a game, playing tag and losing to each other at every landing. At number twenty Chandler unlocked the door, flicked on the lights and Rachel followed him in.

'This is my apartment,' he reminded her.

'But it's so pretty... It's so purple. This-this is a girls' apartment. I miss this apartment; I miss these walls. Hello, walls.' She pressed her cheek against one.

'Yeah, no Spackle there,' Chandler said approvingly. He tripped over one of Joey's shoes left strategically in the middle of the apartment, staggered, sank to the floor and stayed there. He rolled over heavily, stared up at the ceiling.

Rachel wandered across. He looked ridiculously young lying there, she thought; the bones of his face finely drawn under the pale gold of his tan. She nudged him with her toe, got an incoherent groan in reply.

'You,' she stated, 'are so drunk.'

'Uh-uh. The man said you're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without having to hold on, and look!' He waved his arms at her. 'No hands.'

Rachel caught hold of one, tugged at it. 'C'mon, we should get you to bed.'

'Oh yeah?' He smirked, sly.

'Yeah...' She frowned. 'No...'

'That's just mean.'

'Come on, up!' She pulled harder; for a moment their weights counterbalanced and they held each other, poised and still. Then Chandler leaned back and she fell, colliding with the soft, solid warmth of his body and his arms wrapped around her.

'That's not funny,' she said, gasping.

'Then why are you laughing?'

'I'm not laughing, you're laughing.'

He made a face at her. She giggled again and rolled off him. They lay side-by-side, both examining the ceiling.

'Wow, that's a big crack.'

'Uh-huh.' Chandler moved his head slightly, followed the line. 'It looks like denial.'

'Huh?'

'Denial. A river in Egypt.'

She stared at him for a moment. 'Your jokes make less sense when you're drunk.'

'I'm not drunk.'

'Are too.'

'Am not.'

'Are not. No, I mean-'

'Ha!' He waved his finger in her face. 'See, even you say I'm not drunk. That's a conses- cosn- We agree.'

'Okay,' she said after a moment. She closed her eyes. 'But you are kinda weird, though.'

'Oh, yeah.'

She smiled at the air.

It was nice just lying there, she thought. It was a nice, comfortable floor and it only rocked a very little bit. She didn't need to hold on at all.

'Hey, Rach.'

She opened her eyes. Chandler had propped himself up on one elbow; he looked down at her, serious. 'Thanks for picking me up from Yemen.'

'Anytime. Thanks for going out with me tonight.'

He smiled. 'Anytime. It was nice.'

'It was.'

He still looked down at her, like he was trying to work something out. 'You really are sweet.'

'Thanks, sweetie. Hey!' She pointed at him. 'You're sweet, too.'

'Thanks.'

'You said thanks.'

'This is a different thanks.'

'Oh.'

He smiled again, lips curving enough the dimples appeared either side of his mouth. His eyes really were that blue, she decided. He still watched her for a moment, then placed a heavy, slightly clumsy kiss on her forehead. When his face was still close to hers his eyes seemed softer, everything starting to blur a little at the edges. She should stop him, she thought, somewhere in that vague place, she should stop him before- Because when he was drunk he got friendly and-

She should stop him, she thought again, when his mouth pressed against hers. She should not part her lips under his; she should not taste him, explore him; she should not allow the sensation to drive everything else from her mind.

This couldn't happen; there were reasons why it couldn't happen. She was fairly certain that there were reasons and if she could think of what they were she would tell him so. But reasons, and reason, quietly gave in to the assault on her mouth.

He tasted sweet and smoky, edged with something bitter. He tasted like something she'd been missing; he tasted like coming home.

His hand followed the curve of her waist, upwards and-

Chandler Bing was touching her, she thought solemnly, the warm weight of his hand on her breast.

She should make him stop; she should not press herself up into his caress. She should not slip her arms around him, feel the slide and the bunching of the muscles in his back under her hands. She should not shift under him until she could cradle his body between her legs.

And when he stood, took her hand, pulled her up, and then, still holding her hand, pulled her towards his bedroom, she should not follow him.

But she did all of it anyway.


	4. Act Two, Scene One

_Act Two: The One With The Medicinal Purposes_

_Scene One: The Morning After_

The sunlight that had found its way into the room probed gently at Rachel's eyelids. She kept them resolutely closed. The dull throb in her head made her less than keen to move it. And she was comfortable. The pillow was wonderfully soft, the sheets were soft, even the mattress somehow felt softer, floppier; her body seemed to have found a natural hollow in it and it cocooned her. Rachel buried her face deeper into her pillow, continued to ignore the complaints from her head, and sighed slightly.

And slowly - more slowly than she should, perhaps - she became aware of the sound of breathing. She held her breath. She could still hear it. She could feel it faintly against the back of her neck.

She peeled her eyes open, wincing against the incursion of sunlight.

That was her window, these were her walls. This was not her bed and her wonderfully soft pillow was clothed in a blue striped case that was not hers. Carefully, in sections, she rolled over and stared at the face squashed into the neighbouring pillow.

'Oh my God!'

She scrambled away from him. One blue eye popped open. Chandler jerked up, his hair standing in every direction at once.

'Whoa! You are all kinds of naked!'

'So are you!'

Rachel averted her eyes while he rearranged the sheet. Her old room, she thought with mild desperation, was virtually unrecognisable when filled with Chandler's things. She slid her eyes back to him cautiously. He smiled weakly.

'Well, uh-'

'How?' she demanded. 'How-how-how and-and what? What did we do? And what am I sitting on?' She scrabbled at the mattress and the hard, round objects digging into her. They rested in the palm of her hand - a collection of small buttons.

'Uh, I think they came off this,' Chandler said, holding up a sorry item that had once been a shirt; and-

_He pulled her top up, over her head, dropped it to the floor; she reclaimed his lips fiercely, resenting any halt to the feeling of his mouth against hers. They stumbled across the floor, laughing slightly, breath still mingled. His hands traced patterns along her back, twisted up into her hair. His nails raked her scalp and she hummed, husky, deep in her throat._

_Her fingers worked the buttons on his shirt and failed. They felt too clumsy, were trembling too much, but she couldn't separate herself from him long enough to see what she was doing. And she needed to feel his skin against hers so badly she ached with it. In frustration she took hold of the edges, pulled at it, felt the fabric give under her fingers, buttons ripping off and-_

'Oh...' Rachel sank back into her hollow. Fragments of the evening played themselves hazily in her mind: the bar, the game of pool, the walk back, him carrying her, the floor and all the kissing and- She closed her eyes again. Her head hurt less that way. A few moments and she felt the bed dip beside her.

'Well, this is new,' he said.

'Yeah. But... But we don't do this.'

'Apparently we do. Well, we did.'

'Oh, my God...' She put her hands over her face. 'Oh, this is bad.'

There was silence for a moment, a few long moments, then he spoke again. 'Yeah, I can imagine for you it's a disaster.'

Rachel turned her head sharply and regretted it, regretted even more the closed-off look she could see, even in profile, and the unfamiliar bitterness that had laced his words.

'I didn't mean- It's not- Chandler. Chandler, look at me.'

His head turned, blue eyes hard and flat. She sighed.

'You're one of my best friends. I don't want to ruin that - you're too important to me.'

There was a softening. 'Yeah, I- You're kinda important to me, too.'

She smiled. 'And I don't really express things very well when my head hurts this much.'

'We pretty much drank the whole bar, didn't we?'

'Yeah, and it was fun! And the last part was-was...' Her body flushed at the memories. 'Well, it was pretty amazing, actually.'

He grinned. 'It was.'

Unshaven, his eyes blackened from lack of sleep, his face creased, but his smile still changed everything, still seemed brighter than anything she had ever seen. Too easy to give in to.

'Do you, uh, have any aspirin?'

'Yeah, sure, uh...' He rolled away, opening the drawer in the bedside table and returning with a box of aspirin and a half-full bottle of water.

'Thanks.' She swallowed them, coughing against the tablet that stuck in her throat. She brushed one finger against the small scar to the side of his chest. 'What happened there?'

He glanced down. 'The nubbinectomy.'

'Oh.' Her face creased in disappointment. 'I never got to see that.'

'Yeah, total loss on your part.'

'But it's not like it's something you get to see every day,' she said, idly running her fingers over the pale shiny line. He squirmed under the touch. 'Are you ticklish?'

'N-no,' he said, gasping slightly.

She grinned, delighted. 'I think you are...'

'No, no I'm not...'

She found the hollow spaces beneath his ribs, the patches of skin across his stomach; her hands darted, fast, and he laughed helplessly under her attack, begging for mercy. And just as quickly as it had started, it stopped, her wrists caught and pinned either side of her head and his weight held her down. The laughter in his face changed to something else.

'Head still hurt?'

She nodded wordlessly.

'You know what they say is the best hangover cure in the world?'

'You mean...'

He smiled again, something slow, something that warmed in a way wholly different to his other smiles. 'Yeah.' He let go of her wrists.

'So-' Rachel moistened her lips, swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. 'So, it would just be like it's for medicinal purposes?'

'Yeah, something like that.'

'I-' She caught her breath sharply when his fingernails scraped against her thigh. So much easier not to think, especially when his lips were already fluttering against the line of her neck, down into the hollow at the base of her throat. And his fingers continued tracing patterns along the curve of her inner thigh, languid figures-of-eight that moved fractionally higher each time.

The throb in her head matched its rhythm to his breath against her skin, the dull pain slowly being muffled by pleasure as nerve-endings responded to his touch. When he took her breast in his mouth her back arched and she bit down on her lip, smothering the faint cry. She felt him smile in response and remembered the feeling of his lips against hers, their softness and their steadiness. She pulled his head back up to hers, kissed him, pulled his breath into her mouth.

She dragged her fingers over his skin, across his chest, his stomach, following the hard contours of his ribs until she smoothed her hands down the length of his back. When she opened for him he slid into her, slow, an endless moment where he filled her completely.

Her eyes, wide and darkened, stayed on his face, watching the expression, something like reverence, that played across his features.

His rhythm pulsed through her, and she met it, her body pressing harder against his, like a slow-dance they both already knew the steps to. Their fingers laced together. His lips brushed against her face: her cheeks, her forehead, her fluttering eyelids. She twined her legs around his, grazed her teeth against the pulse in his throat, felt its wild throb.

Pressure mounting brought an increase in tempo; her body shook with it, muscles tightening in anticipation of release. She still watched his face, saw the flare behind his eyes, whimpered helplessly as their bodies slid together, faster, his voice hoarse murmuring her name, and she broke. Eyes closing under the force, seeing white light, hearing the blood roaring through her head, feeling his chest shake against hers. She bit her lip again, smothering the scream that the whole damn street would hear if she let it out.

His shuddering breath against the side of her neck and his weight collapsed against her.

When he started to move she wrapped herself around him, keeping him there, his head cradled in her arms.

They didn't do this, she reminded herself, they did not do this; but for now, for these moments, they did.


	5. Act Two, Scene Two

_Scene Two: Just Friends_

Her second awakening came slowly, pushing upwards through the thick black morass of deep sleep. Her own bed, definitely her own bed this time, in her own room with those walls that were an indeterminate shade of greige. For a few moments it was possible to imagine that the night before, that a few hours before, had been imagined, a dream on a flood of alcohol.

Except that her skin, her hair, smelt of Chandler; she could still feel him on her; she was ingrained with him.

Chandler. She shied away from that thought and the unfamiliar maelstrom of emotions that name suddenly conjured. It had been easier before, simple; he was someone she trusted, confided in, relied on, someone she- She pulled away again. What would Ross say if he knew? Ross. That was something known, a hurt she knew how to deal with; she nursed that, thought about Ross and Emily and willed herself into the familiar space of pain and confusion and slammed the shutters against memories of blue eyes burning into hers and a voice murmuring her name still with a whisper of laughter.

Rachel peeled herself out of bed, found the small apartment empty and headed for the shower.

ooOoo

The remnants of her hangover still clung, muddy threads that blocked out parts of her mind and left her with a vague sense of nausea and exhaustion. Water, coffee, more water. She sat at the breakfast bar, holding her mug between her hands, watching the steam cloud the surface. Noises from the apartment below drifted up through the hole in the floor: a radio or television; a bird twittering; Mrs Chatracus talking volubly to (one would guess) her husband, who grunted in reply occasionally.

Rachel bent down, idly massaging the bruise that had appeared just above her ankle. How had she managed it? she wondered. Not playing pool, surely. Clambering up onto a barstool? Or possibly while slithering off one. Or while walking home; or maybe when she had been stumbling across-

No. No, she wasn't thinking about that.

She had left the coffee black, adding extra sugar and relishing the deep bitterness kicking against the sweetness. In all her time at Central Perk she had never actually learnt to make a decent cup of coffee - that was a skill she had acquired since, out of necessity and because she wanted to. She concentrated on the steaming black liquid until her attention was caught by the faint scratching against the front door. It stopped when she started to listen, started up again when she relaxed.

Rachel slid off the stool, took the few steps to the door cautiously. The noise was getting louder, more insistent, scraping and knocking. She stood behind the door, feeling her skin prickling; her hand hovered over the knob, pulled back, reached for it again with determination. She pulled open the door and was met by an indignant quack and a beating of wings.

'Shoo! Shoo!' Rachel flapped her hands at the duck, trying to bar its entrance into the apartment; she closed the door firmly and danced around it, trying to herd it back across the hall and through the already open door.

'...I haven't finished talking to you, mis- Oh. Hey, hi, hey.' Chandler stopped just beyond the door, Yasmine in his arms.

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

They smiled at each other uncertainly. Rachel dropped her eyes back to the duck.

'Playing hide-and-seek again?'

'No.' He looked down at the duck. 'No! No hide-and-seek for you! That is a bad duck!' He settled Yasmine under one arm, stooped, collected the duck in the other, took them both back into his apartment. 'And I want the two of you to make up.' He closed the door on them, rolled his eyes at her. She laughed despite herself and he smiled again. 'Speaking of birds, let me tell you about this hot chick I scored with last night.'

Heat flooded her cheeks and her gaze dropped again. 'Yeah... Yeah, I really-' She shook her head. 'I've been thinking about that, sort of, a lot and I don't think- We probably shouldn't- We should talk about-'

'Rach, it's okay,' he said pleasantly.

She looked up. 'Wh-what's okay?'

He shrugged, hands slipping into his jeans' pockets; he looked like he was smiling. 'Us, you and me, it's okay. We... We had a lot to drink.'

'Yes. Yes! God, yes, a _lot_ to drink.' She laughed, the sound oddly jarring.

'And, well, you know me: friendly when drunk.' He looked at her. 'And apparently, so are you.'

She caught her breath, released it. 'Looks that way. I don't-I don't want you to think it didn't- I mean-' She gazed at him helplessly, all the little speeches she'd been rehearsing in her head erasing themselves. He was making it so easy for her, for both of them and now that it had come to it she wished he wouldn't; now it had come to it she wanted the fight.

Another shrug, still pleasant. 'I know, it happened. It didn't mean nothing because, you know, it's you.' A fleeting smile. 'But it ... it probably...'

'Shouldn't happen again,' she said quietly.

'Yes, that's ... that's what I was going to say.'

She stared at the patch of floor near her feet again; Chandler appeared to be memorising the wall just behind her head. 'So, we're okay?'

'Of course we are.'

'Oh. Good. I'm- That's good.' She wrapped her arms around herself, stared at him. Chandler returned the gaze, unrelenting, then one corner of his mouth turned up.

'Come here.'

He caught her in an embrace.

'See? Still friends,' he told her softly down her ear.

She nodded silently. It was good, she thought, nice that they were both fine with it, that they were still friends, just friends. They kept their arms around each other. She could feel his cheek against the top of her head; she closed her eyes, turning her head into the curve of his shoulder. He smelt of soap and clean clothes and Chandler.

She pulled away.

'Okay.' She forced a smile. 'Okay, that's- We're good. Great! Yay!'

'Yeah. Uh, I was heading down for coffee - you coming?'

'I...' She pulled her robe closer around her body. 'Y'know, I was actually going to go lie down, my head's still kind of fuzzy. All that tequila.'

'It's a killer.'

'It is.'

They smiled at each other again.

'Okay, well, I... I guess I'll see you later.'

'I guess.'

'Feel better,' he said, starting for the stairs.

'Thanks.'

He didn't look back at her. Rachel turned back into the apartment. It had gone well, she thought; so well that she felt like weeping.

ooOoo

At the convenience store, Mr Andrescu handed over the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, sucking his breath in through his teeth and shaking his head.

For someone whose livelihood partly depended on the smokers of the city, Chandler thought while pocketing his change, Mr Andrescu seemed ridiculously judgemental of people who smoked.

Out on the street, in the New York sunshine, he ran his fingers over the pack, savouring the the familiar lines and edges, the crinkle of the cellophane. He peeled it off slowly, flipped open the lid, eased back the folds of silver foil; he breathed in the dry deep fruity scent. And he put the pack and the lighter in the pocket in the front of his sweatshirt. He was aware of their weight, their siren call, with each step he took. This was his test of strength. If he could get through the day - just the one day, a half day by now - without a cigarette, then he wasn't hung up on her, he didn't crave her, she had not become another of his deep desperate wonderful addictions.

In Central Perk Phoebe was setting up at the microphone; she waved to him cheerfully when he entered. He'd always thought that people were joking, or just being kind, when they said that pregnant women were glowing but Phoebe really was. She looked astonishingly beautiful - the fecund goddess of the coffee house.

'Hey, it's Lawrence of Arabia!' Monica, curled on the sofa.

He sank beside her gratefully and she snuggled up against him the way she so often did; his arm went around her shoulders automatically.

'How was the trip?'

He grunted; Monica smiled.

'Phoebe's written a song about it.'

He winced. 'Excellent.'

A moment. Monica raised her head, peered at him. 'Are you okay?'

'Me? I'm good, great, couldn't be better. How are you?'

She frowned. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

Chandler closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. 'I'm fine - just jet-lagged.'

'Ah.' She nodded, sympathetic, and lowered her head again.

It was nice, he thought, with her dark hair spilling across his shoulder. Nice, but not quite right. Not the right fit in the curve of his arm, not the right face smiling up into his, not the right voice talking to him, laughing with him, teasing him.

Phoebe started her set, telling his life in a mangle of clashing chords and banshee-wailed lyrics.

The wrong girl in his arms and Phoebe turning the event into a crime against music. That, Chandler thought, was just perfection.

He made his excuses to Monica, smiled in Phoebe's direction, got to the corner beyond Central Perk, tapped one of the cigarettes out of its home, lit it, and pulled the sweet smoke down deep.


	6. Act Three, Scene One

_Act Three: The One With A River In Egypt_

_Scene One: The Build Up_

Rachel stared balefully at the selection of sad sandwiches and already-wilted lettuce. An army may march on its stomach, but the good folks at Bloomingdale's evidently did not believe that their employees did. She inspected a pot of something calling itself pasta salad and put it back.

'Hey.'

She turned slightly, found another of the staff peering at the offerings with a look of resignation.

'Hi, Cindy.'

They shuffled along in the queue, adding the least unappealing items to their trays.

'Three days in a row - that's like a record for you.'

Rachel frowned. 'Huh?'

'Three days having lunch here; I mean, you always have lunch with that guy, uh, Chandler, right?' She smiled slightly, eyes suddenly brighter. 'He's funny.'

'He- I- Not always, I don't always have lunch with him, it's sometimes, just sometimes. We're friends. He lives across the hall from me. He's a, uh, y'know, he's a friend.'

Cindy's eyes were widened, round, looking at her; she said slowly: 'Okay.'

Rachel clutched her tray, paid for her meal, found a seat at one of the tables and made the appropriate noises of feigned interest during Cindy's monologue.

It was not, she repeated to herself, always lunch with Chandler. It was not every day, it was just ... most days. Her first day at Bloomingdale's, her nerves jangling with excitement and dry-mouthed fear, he had looked at her and given her one of his quiet, sincere, slightly lopsided smiles and offered to take her out to lunch - just so she'd have a friend, a familiar face, to talk to, rely on. On her first day, then the next day and then- And then sometimes after that she'd have lunch with Ross instead but after _that_ it had been Chandler again, always, just her and Chandler, the two of them for nearly an hour each day. Something that was theirs, something that she never really talked to anyone else about; she wasn't sure anyone else even knew.

His much-hated job became a source of entertainment; he would always have a story for her: the saga of Larry from accounts and his ongoing war with Jeff from personnel; Jackie from system support and her campaign to win the heart of Adam from finance. It made her look at her own work in a different light, finding the humorous aspects, looking for the little things she could save up and tell him at their next lunch, the things that would make him laugh.

She missed it, she realised suddenly, spearing the leaves of her salad. She missed the easiness of those encounters, those minutes out of her day where everything else just became so much background noise. She missed the blue eyes dancing at her from across a table. She missed him.

After lunch, she half-dialled the number then stopped. So, she would call him and then what? She sat, the receiver in her hand, staring at nothing in particular.

They would be all right in the end, she reasoned. All it needed was a little time and everything would go back to normal.

ooOoo

The brightly coloured images flickered past in a blur of hyperactive animated energy; Chandler focused on them, losing himself in the detail and the unashamed inspired silliness of it. He barely looked around when the door behind him opened and then closed again; he glanced over, straightened when he saw her, turned back and lowered the sound on the television.

Rachel placed her purse carefully on the breakfast bar, smiled at him. 'Hi.'

'Hey. Hi. Monica let us come over to watch cartoons again,' he explained.

'Ah. Where's Joey?'

'Well, y'know, that porn isn't going to watch itself.'

She rolled her eyes. 'God, isn't there only so much porn you can watch?'

He shook his head, pitying. 'No. See, that's the beauty of porn - its variety is infinite.'

'I just don't get it.' She took a glass from the cabinet, filled it at the sink, took a few small sips. 'I mean, isn't it just the same thing over and over? And the pizza gets delivered and never eaten, the washing machine is broken and never gets fixed.'

'Hey, the washing machine does so get fixed, getting to the spin cycle is frequently a very important component of the plot.'

Her eyebrows went up. 'They have plots?'

'Did you not see the heartrending tale of one man's quest for love and acceptance that was _Forrest Humps_?'

They smiled at each other. She drank her water, rinsed out the glass.

'Still needed a break from it though, huh?'

'Oh yeah, all that writhing and moaning kinda gets repetitive.'

Rachel rolled her eyes again, crossed the floor and hovered uncertainly at the end of the sofa.

'You want to watch cartoons with me? I think this is the one where Wile E. Coyote finally gets the better of Roadrunner.'

Her eyes moved to the television, back to him; Wile E. Coyote was dragged to the bottom of the Grand Canyon attached to an anvil.

'You think?'

He smiled. 'I can live in hope.'

She laughed lightly. Her eyes wandered around the room, not staying on him longer than was necessary. 'Have you heard from Ross?'

A moment before he answered. 'No.' Flat.

'You know, I can't believe he flew all the way to London. That's-that's... That's crazy.'

'Uh-huh.'

Wile E. launched himself out of a giant catapult and straight into an acre's worth of cacti. Needles sticking into him everywhere. Chandler didn't laugh.

'And now she's over here...'

'Yeah.'

He heard her sigh. The unfortunate coyote blew himself up and Chandler thought wearily, bitterly, that the creature deserved to eat just once.

'Hey.' Rachel again, soft. He looked at her. She still stood at the end of the couch, looking down at him, the long blonde wisps framing her face. 'Are we having lunch tomorrow or are you going to blow me off again?'

'I haven't-' He caught his breath. 'I've just been really busy. Y'know when you don't actually do what you're paid to do all year and then they want those figures you've had twelve months to do next week...' She was still smiling at him, still soft and a little sad. He swallowed, hard. He reached across for her hand and she took his; her curled fingers felt warm and delicate. 'I wasn't blowing you off, Rach, I'd never do that.'

'Okay.'

She still held his hand; but when the door opened and Monica entered she let go, jerking away as though she'd been burned.

'Maybe Wile E. will have better luck next time,' she said.

'Yeah, maybe.'

She went into her bedroom. He declined Monica's offer of cookies, suddenly feeling his stomach contract.

He lingered in the hall between apartments, caught in the place that wasn't hers and wasn't his, somewhere neither could claim ownership, somewhere as neutral as their hopelessly entangled lives would allow. The hallway, he decided, was Switzerland. He'd have to get it a cuckoo-clock.

He pushed open the door to number twenty; dark inside, just the unsteady light from the television illumining the place, the sound muted. Joey had fallen asleep in his Barcalounger, the remote still in his hand. Chandler stood for a moment, watching the soundless images. The girl on screen was pretty, very pretty, more natural-looking than most of her colleagues. Dark blonde hair, regular features that became mesmerising under the force of a devastating smile, clear green-blue eyes.

He looked away, looked back.

The actress' eyes had drifted closed, heavy and smoky with ecstasy, her head titled back, lips parted and quivering.

Chandler took the remote gently from Joey's unresisting hand, flicked the switch. All dark. He pressed the on button again and was greeted with the scrambled fuzz of white noise. He put the remote back between Joey's fingers and went into the room that had been hers.


	7. Act Three, Scene Two

_Scene Two: The Bombshell_

'Forget it!' They glared at each other. 'Okay, I'm not giving up my bachelor pad for some basketball seats!'

Rachel's eyebrows rose, incredulous. 'Your bachelor pad?'

Monica, almost pitying: 'Have you even had a girl up here?'

For a moment his gaze flicked to Rachel; he saw the slight widening of her eyes. 'N-'

'Yeah he has!' Joey grinned at him proudly.

'Wh-wh-what?' It felt endless, that time where his brain and his mouth tried to catch up with each other.

Joey leant towards the two girls, stage-whispered at them: 'Some girl left her underwear in his room.'

'What?' His voice had become a yelp.

'What?' Rachel tossed the hair out of her eyes, leant against the table, arms folded, trying to force a smile across her face that trembled slightly at the edges. 'I mean, uh, what kind of girl does that?'

'Maybe the kind who sneaks out first thing in the morning.' The retort came out harder than he had intended; he saw her eyes widen again, a flash behind them. He rounded on Joey. 'And what were you doing in my room?'

'Hey!' Joey held up his hands. 'Don't blame me - the duck was the one who got hold of 'em.'

'Ew!' Monica, her face wrinkling.

'Who was it?' Joey was eager, his face bright. So easily pleased, Chandler thought, and so damn relentless at all the wrong moments.

'She, uh...' He smiled suddenly. 'She was one of the flight attendants. Yeah, a flight attendant on the ... flight. From Yemen. She was on the flight from Yemen.'

'Dude, nice!' Joey put his arm around Chandler's shoulders, squeezed. 'My little boy's all grown up!'

Monica rolled her eyes, stalked out of the apartment. When Chandler slid his gaze to Rachel she was standing very still, arms folded, a tight, white, look stretched across her face. They stared at each other until she moved away; the door closing behind her was almost soundless.

He caught her up in the hall.

'Rach - I'm sorry.'

She rounded, her hair whipping around her shoulders. Hey eyes were too bright. 'You kept my underwear?' It came through clenched teeth.

'Hey, you left it behind and I didn't even know about it.' He paused and let the points of anger settle: anger with her, anger with himself. 'If you want, I can get the duck to reimburse you.'

She glared at him. 'Just forget it. And, F.Y.I., I did not sneak out.'

He held up his hands. 'Whatever.'

'I didn't!'

_She pulled her clothes on quickly, making as little noise as possible. He kept his eyes on her; shafts of sunlight caught the dust moats, turning them into a shower of lazily-rotating gold flecks around her. _

_'Leaving the scene of the crime, huh?'_

_She didn't start, didn't seem surprised that he hadn't really been sleeping. She turned and smiled slightly through a curtain of messy hair, smoothed it back with one hand. Her head tilted._

_'I just really need my own bed,' she said softly, 'I never sleep well anywhere else and, God, I am so tired.'_

_If it was a lie, and he knew it was, it was a sweet one._

He shrugged. 'Okay.'

Rachel stared at him miserably. 'I hate this. I hate fighting with you.'

'We're not fighting.'

'It feels like we are.'

He studied the patch of wall behind her head again. Switzerland - not all it was cracked up to be.

'This isn't a fight,' he said, firm. 'Fights involve furniture being thrown and the pool-boy trying to slit his wrists with a corkscrew.'

She frowned. 'What?'

'Right... That was just _my_ parents, wasn't it?'

A variety of emotions flitted across her face. 'I can never tell when you're joking about that stuff.'

He shrugged again. 'I'm not joking.'

Her face was white again, eyes sombre. 'I- That's- I'm sorry.'

His eyebrows went up. 'For what?'

'For-' Her shoulders sagged. 'I don't know.'

It had never been difficult before, not with Rachel; strange, really, because she was the sort of girl who ordinarily would reduce him to a stuttering incoherent mess. Rachel was far from ordinary. She was far from a lot of things and now so far from him it was as though she had never really been there at all.

'For the record, I hate this too,' he told her.

'Haven't done so well at just being friends, have we?'

'Then we will, okay?' He drew a line in the air. 'From now on, we are the best friends ever. The rest of it's all in the past and we-we don't have to talk about it again. Deal?' He held out his hand; she hesitated for a moment then took it.

'Deal.'

ooOoo

Ross' voice seemed to echo through every corner of the apartment, finding its way into every nook, every inaccessible part and write itself into the fabric of the building. His voice bubbling with happiness and excitement, this new life he was starting for himself, so suddenly, and she-

Rachel's legs gave way and she sat down on the edge of the bed.

And she had what? A job that she didn't particularly like but was still far better than what she had had before; she had the apartment back and an hour ago - hell, five minutes ago - that had been the best thing to happen all week; she had Chandler-

She pushed it away again, that nagging inconvenient pain. She had messed that up so completely. She swallowed it down. It wasn't real; that pain wasn't real, she was insistent on that point; the real pain was Ross. Ross and Emily. Numbness swept in. It had gone quiet out there.

She should go to him, she thought, and stood before she had realised it; she should congratulate them.

ooOoo

Chandler tapped at the door, pushed it open cautiously. Rachel was standing in the middle of her room, staring aimlessly at nothing, the blouse in her hand trailing on the floor.

'Hey.'

Her eyes moved to him and her features rearranged themselves. She smiled, forced, too brightly. 'Oh, hi!'

He eased into the room, closing the door behind him. 'I, uh, I brought this back.' He held up the paperback book. 'You left it in my room. Didn't want the duck to get hold of it.'

He smiled had dropped, washed across her face again. 'Thanks.' She didn't move to take it.

'I'll just leave it over here.' He put it on her bedside table. He kept his voice low, gentle, the way you would talk to an invalid. Empty of their burden, his hands slipped into his pockets. 'So... Ross. The marrying man.'

'Yeah. Yeah, that's, uh... That's, wow, it's great, isn't it? I mean it's really great.' Her hand gripped the blouse hard, knuckles whitening.

'Are you okay?'

'Me?' Eyes wide. 'I'm good, I'm great, I'm just ... I'm just great.' One hand waved. 'Got the apartment back, Ross getting married... It's all great. Everything is great.'

'Well, that's great,' he said flatly. Some of the brightness in her eyes dimmed.

'It's just- It's sudden.' There was a catch in her voice. Chandler sighed.

'I'm sorry, Rach.'

'What? No... No. It's fine.' She blinked rapidly, shook her head. 'It's fine. Emily's ... nice. They'll be happy and-and I want that for Ross.'

Lucky Ross, he thought, just like always, and added in an extra spear of anger for him. And then let all of them go. None of this was anybody's fault.

She was fragile standing there, the unexpected reserves of strength she carried with her suddenly depleted. It was exhausting, he realised suddenly, this yearning for another person. No wonder she looked so drained. Chandler crossed the room, put his hands lightly on her shoulders.

'Hey.'

She looked up at him.

'If you need anything, I'm here - anything at all. You know that, right?'

She swallowed, hard, and nodded. 'I know.' Barely a whisper.

And she leaned into him, her blouse falling to the floor in a whisper of silk; she pressed both hands against the wall of his chest, laid her head on his shoulder. He held her. When she raised her head again he smoothed the hair back from her face, felt its satin catch against his fingers. Her smile was softer, more familiar.

'Thanks.'

It was becoming their ritual.

'Anytime.'


	8. Act Three, Scene Three

_Scene Three: The Fallout_

Unable to sleep, Rachel got up, got a glass of water, kept going before she was aware of it, crossed the hall, stood for a moment in the patch of moonlight on the floor behind the Barcaloungers. They were facing different corners of the room, a bird in each one, heads burrowed down under their wings, eyes black and glassy and unseeing. She crept past them, pushed open the top half of his door, stepped over the bottom half and stood in his room.

The silence was broken by the rising and falling notes of his breathing.

The bedrooms they had shared, albeit separately, held the same mingling of scents: her perfume, his aftershave. It was a strangely comforting smell and she breathed it in, holding onto it.

Oblivious, Chandler slept - on his side, face mashed into his pillow, hair falling across his forehead. She studied the shape of his head, the fine lines of his skull, the elegant curve of his arm - even in sleep - across the duvet. She caught a breath, released it, peeled back one corner of the bedclothes, slid in beneath them. She felt the bed dip under her weight, the springs giving as she edged herself across, feeling the warmth from his body spread to hers. He felt solid, reassuring, when she was against him. Rachel wrapped one arm around him, felt him stir. She pressed her lips against the back of his neck, the rough ends of his hair catching her cheek.

'Rachel?' His voice rough, still thickened from sleep.

Strange, she thought, that he should know it was her; stranger still that she should be so pleased that he knew.

She tightened her hold on him, marked a trail of kisses along his hairline to his ear.

'Hey.'

'What are you doing?'

The T-shirt he wore was so soft from wear it felt as though it would come apart under her hands. And one hand explored, sliding down the plane of his stomach, then lower, finding the waistband of his shorts. He stopped its progress, imprisoning it in his.

'Rach, this is a really bad idea.'

She sighed against his ear, leaning over him. 'You said if there was anything I needed.'

'Yeah, but-'

'Anything.'

Her hand slipped from his grasp, continued the path it had found.

He moved suddenly, rolling over, holding her down. She stared up at him, his face half in shadow and his eyes blazing through the dim light.

'What is it you want, Rachel?'

Her breath was shaking. 'Right now I want this.' This to blot out the hurt; this, one more time, to get him out of her head for good.

'And then what?'

'I don't- I don't know. I don't want to think beyond now.'

He studied her. 'Fine.'

His lips bruised hers, their force unexpected but welcome. Her mouth opened, taking him in, their tongues sliding together. She grasped at his shoulders, felt the tremors running through them. His thigh slid between hers, pressure bringing only a little relief. Her hands moved to his face, cupping it, her thumbs caressing his cheeks. He pulled back from her then, his eyes wandering over her, hungry, and she shivered, memories colliding with present reality.

His fingertips danced across her skin, so light she could barely feel it. And she wanted to feel it. She arched up into the touch but it still wasn't enough, he still stayed just beyond the place she needed him most. He was finding different ways of torturing her. His nails grazed across her ribcage, her stomach, down lower, his touch delicate, frustratingly tantalising.

She was not wearing the clothes for this, she thought: an old pair of sleep-shorts, an even older T-shirt and very definitely not sex-worthy underwear. Not that Chandler seemed to mind that, not from the way he was looking at her, not from the way he was easing the faded cotton down her legs, slowly, drawing it out.

His hand strong around her ankle, fingers pressing into the hollows, then he followed the lines up, tracing the contours of muscle along her legs, working out the tension - increasing it with each touch - moving higher; he drew patterns along the curve of her thighs, parted them, his long fingers certain and strong, still moving upward, then-

She gasped, hands grasping the sheets, pulling them taut.

His fingers, then his mouth - _oh God, his mouth_ - on her, in her, relentless pressure building. She gasped for air, grinding herself against him. She broke under him, his hands still holding her firm, her body in spasm then limp.

Not enough, still not enough. She attacked the clothes he wore, clawing at them, needing to feel skin on skin, needing to feel him with her in the closest possible way. He pulled her T-shirt up over her head, knuckles grazing against her breasts and she pressed herself against that touch. She ached for it. He lowered his head, his mouth - _God, still his mouth - _finding lines and contours and planes and enveloping tender flesh in its warmth.

She ran her hands over him, his arms, his chest, his back, her fingers raking through his hair.

Not enough, still not enough, but she wouldn't beg; she bit down down on her lip; she wouldn't plead for what she needed from him the most.

His hands slid over her body, under her hips, lifting her without resistance and... And he was inside her. Her eyes flickered closed, her breath catching. She released it, shaking, and opened her eyes and he was watching her, his forehead against hers, his breath sweet against her face. His skin damp, like hers, and warm. He barely moved, making the moment unending, making her feel him.

Her body rose against his, her hands pressing into the hollow at the base of his spine. She wouldn't beg; she would not. She murmured his name and he slammed into her.

It pounded through her, dragging a cry of satisfaction from her lips; she caught his lips between her teeth, tasting him again.

A faster rhythm, harder, and their bodies moved together, aching for release; she rocked herself against him, legs tight around him, holding him with her, feeling his heart thundering against hers. And the release came, waves of it, and she was blinded by it, her body shaking.

She still held onto him, holding him against her. His skin felt slippery under her hands, warm and coated in sweat. Breath slowing, he caught her lips with his - a strangely chaste exchange.

He rolled away from her. They lay side-by-side, staring upwards.

'Well. Was that what you wanted?'

She blinked hard against the sudden sting behind her eyes, tried to swallow the tightness in her throat.

'Rachel?'

She turned away, covering her face with her hands.

'Oh, God, Rach...' His voice, suddenly so gentle. She choked back the sounds. 'Don't, please ... please don't do that. I-I'm sorry.'

'It isn't-' She couldn't catch her breath. 'It isn't-isn't y-' Her voice broke helplessly.

'Come here.'

He held her and she wept softly against his shoulder. He stroked her hair, then his fingers found her face, tilting her chin back, wiping her tears away clumsily.

'It's okay,' he told her earnestly. 'It's going to be okay, I promise. Everything will be okay.'

She tried to nod, hiccuped back the tears. He still cupped her face in his hand, brushed his lips lightly against the damp tracks along her cheeks. She let him comfort her, allowed herself to enjoy the warmth from him. Their fingers laced together; and when he sank into her again she was smiling.


	9. Act Four, Scene One

_Act Four: The One Where They're in London_

_Scene One: Parklife_

Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the buff-coloured carpet. It was so blandly tasteful it hurt her eyes.

'Rachel!'

She started, looked up. Monica looked down at her, arms folded.

'What?'

'Ten bucks if you can tell me what I just said.'

Rachel grimaced. 'I'm sorry, sweetie.'

Monica sighed, sat beside her, tucked her hair behind her ears. 'What's wrong?'

Rachel angled towards her, breathing deeply. 'Honestly, I think- I've been thinking maybe I should go back home. I don't know what I'm doing here, Mon, and-and really one of us should have stayed with Phoebe-'

'Phoebe's fine,' Monica said firmly. 'She has Alice and Frank Junior with her and she's not even due until after we get back. And Ross is counting on you being here and so am I. Coming all this way with everyone else to watch my brother getting married and you not being here... That would just be weird.' She paused, watching her friend keenly. 'And you said it yourself, this-this could be good for you - finally close that chapter. You know?'

Rachel put her head in her hands, said through her fingers. 'I know, I know, and you're right.' She straightened up. 'You're right. And I really hate that, by the way.'

Monica smiled, patted her knee. 'I know.' She paused again. 'Is it really bad?'

She teetered, thought about telling her everything; she pasted on the approximation of a smile. 'I can live with it. It's okay. Really. It's just, y'know, something in the water over here.'

Monica still watched her, a hundred questions behind her eyes that she didn't voice. That must be killing her, Rachel thought, the restraint; and she loved her for it.

'What are you doing today? You want to come with us?'

Rachel regarded her dubiously. 'Wedding talk? Really?'

'Yeah, maybe not.'

'I think I'll see what the guys are up to.'

ooOoo

'Come on! Do something!'

Chandler glared at his flatmate balefully. 'I am, I'm ignoring you.'

Joey came up from behind the viewfinder, passed the camera along. 'Okay, here. I want to be the on camera guy. All right, first stop, Westminster Abbey.' He unfolded a sheet of paper that could have wrapped up the Abbey and still had some acres to spare for the cathedral; carefully-rendered paper monuments sprang up like a child's pop-up book. Chandler stared in horror.

'Oh, what the hell is that?'

'It's London, baby! All right, the hotel's here. Wait. No, we want to go... No. I know.' He put the map down. 'I'm going to have to go into the map.'

Chandler watched as Joey stepped into the unfolded map, staring down at it with furious concentration. 'Okay, if you see a little version of me in there? Kill it!'

Joey, undeterred: 'I got it! Here we go.'

Chandler started following him, more out of morbid fascination and a lack of anywhere else to go. 'Okay,' he said. 'Listen-listen, we're not gonna have to walk this way the entire time are we?

'Shhh!' He stopped. 'Man, you made me lose it!' Map back on the pavement. Chandler felt a massive headache start to build behind his eyes.

'Hey, guys!'

He turned and found Rachel, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless jogging down the street towards them. The hazy sunlight turned her hair deep gold. He caught his breath, looked away, looked back at her.

'Hey.'

It had been better between them lately. Mainly because she seemed to ensure that they were never alone together as much as he did and because he very carefully excised all thoughts of Rachel from his daily routine.

That part was not made easier when she smiled up at him, squinting against the sun, her face full of laughter and her eyes dancing. He caught the scent of her perfume and his stomach flipped.

'What are you doi-' She lowered her voice, kept her eyes on Joey. 'Oh, what is that?'

'It's his map of London.'

'You're kidding me.'

He turned wearied eyes on her. 'You have no idea how I wish that were so.'

'Okay, I found it again. We're- Oh, hey, Rach!'

She smiled at him.

'You coming with us?'

'Yeah, if that's-' she darted a look at Chandler '-if that's okay.'

Joey grinned at her. 'Yeah, baby!'

She turned her gaze - questioning, hopeful - to Chandler.

'Yeah,' he said softly, 'yeah, that's okay.'

ooOoo

They saw Westminster - Palace, Abbey and Cathedral - and at Rachel's request (or wheedling) also Harrods, Selfridges and Fenwick. They lunched at a pub-

'What the hell is that?'

'Mac-'n-cheese, lasagne and fries. The Brits call 'em chips - weird, huh?'

'Oh yes, _that's_ what's weird.'

'We're in London, baby!'

-and while Joey's camera caught every sight from the Changing of the Guard to the buskers at Covent Garden, both he and it remained oblivious to the little human drama unfolding in their proximity.

It did not catch the way that Rachel and Chandler watched one another when they thought the other wasn't looking; it captured hints but not the full force of the overly-bright smiles of one and the other's jokes that were laden with too much cynicism.

But there was one scene that did make it through.

ooOoo

Rachel stretched out her arms, turned her face up to catch the rays of late evening sun. The air was balmy, hazy over the trees. It was a reminder of home, this expanse of green in the middle of the city. A feeling compounded by the sight of fellow countrymen, expatriated, playing American football alongside one of the pathways. It seemed at once familiar and alien.

Over their cheerful shouts came the sound of bickering, the same sound that had haunted her all day: Chandler trying to wrest the camera from Joey, and the latter stubbornly refusing and still committing every detail to celluloid.

A lull in the exchanges - Joey had returned to being the man with a movie camera.

She poked Chandler in the ribs. 'Stop being such a grouch.'

He turned on her, pained. 'I am not! Just- Just look at him!'

She had to admit the hat was taking the whole London experience a bit far, but, after all, they were tourists - a certain amount of bad judgement was to be expected.

'Y'know, you'd probably enjoy yourself more if you'd just relax.'

'I am relaxed,' Chandler replied stiffly.

'Oh, really?'

'Yeah, really.'

Her fingers found the spot just under his ribcage and he sucked in a breath.

'Hey!'

'Ooh, someone _is_ ticklish...'

She was merciless, her hands moving fast, locating the places they had already found once before. Soft flesh and muscle and bone sliding under her touch. He tried to evade her but she followed him. His face was suddenly bright with laughter, eyes dancing, glowing. He caught hold of her wrists with one hand and got his revenge: her shrieks echoed across the park and she writhed under his fingers.

'You guys are so cute!'

They stopped, locked together. His arms were around her, somehow, and she was staring up into his face. Somehow. And Joey had it all on camera. He was still staring through the viewfinder, grinning at them.

Rachel eased herself out of Chandler's embrace.

They stood apart, staring at each other, both horribly aware of the other's proximity and the sudden loss of it.

'I guess we should back,' he said.

She trailed after him, glad only that Joey was too busy getting footage of the local pigeon population to document her misery.


	10. Act Four, Scene Two

_Scene Two: The Thunderbolt_

Her fingers felt strangely thick, fumbling against the earrings, dropping them more than once. It infected everything, this restlessness running through her. Still in the back of her mind the thought that she should not have come. The earring slipped again, pinging against the sides of the basin; She swore under her breath, caught it. She resumed the attempt, her earlobe reddened and throbbing angrily at her clumsiness but she continued.

It was a distraction, if nothing else, from the other dull aches.

London, she decided, London was definitely overdoing it on the exes front.

Could she call Chandler an ex?

And she had not, she reasoned, sneaked out on him the second time, either; he had only been pretending to be asleep and you can't call it sneaking when the other person knows what you're doing; perhaps if he had spoken to her-

No, this was better. Their unspoken agreement that they would never talk (again) about what had happened between them (again).

Rachel looked at her reflection, critical. The fitted black dress looked fine, her hair pulled back almost severely, the earrings - she smiled slightly - the earrings were show-stoppers, worth the pain. It was all misdirection, all just the things she hid behind.

She sighed, stuffed her compact and lipstick into her purse, headed out into the bedroom. In the full-length mirror she studied herself again. Despite what most people - all people, she would have said - thought, it was not vanity, not _just _vanity, but more uncertainty. So much of her life spent with the understanding that she had nothing to offer but her looks was hard to overcome.

A knock at the door pulled her from her gloomy contemplation.

'Come in.'

Emily's dark head appeared. 'Oh.'

A pause. Rachel smiled brightly. 'Hi.'

'Hi. Hello.' Emily slipped around the door, hovering just beyond the threshold. 'Uh, I- Is Monica here?'

'No, she went down already.'

'Oh. Right. I just- I just wanted to give her this.' She held up a giftbag, colourful folds of tissue-paper standing in soft peaks from within. 'It's just a little thank-you.'

Rachel frowned.

'For the church.'

'Oh, right... Hey, that's Monica - never met a challenge she couldn't wrestle into submission.'

Emily smiled slightly. 'Yes.'

'Do you want to leave that here?'

'I- All right.' Emily placed the bag on a console table; her hands, now empty, smoothed down her dress. 'Actually, Rachel, I'm glad I've found you like this. There is something I've been wanting to say.'

'Oh?'

She pulled in a breath deep, let it go. 'Yes.' Another breath. 'Can we..?' She gestured towards the two chairs at the small table.

'Sure.'

Rachel took one of the chairs, watched the brunette expectantly.

Emily's hands stopped fiddling with her dress, started playing with the loose strands of her hair. 'I've been meaning to say- I really do admire the way that you and Ross have been handling all of this.'

'All of what?'

'This. The wedding. You're both so ... civilised about it. I have terrible relationships with my exes. Well, you can't really call them relationships at all, we're not friends - we're not anything, we're -' She stopped, shook her head sharply. 'That isn't what I wanted to say.' She took another breath. 'What I wanted to say is that I know it means a lot to Ross, your being here; and I wanted you to know, for what it's worth, that it means a lot to me, too. For Ross' sake. I know it can't be easy for you-'

Rachel shook her head. 'Honestly, it's fine.'

Emily smiled again, still slightly. 'Rachel, I know what you and Ross meant to each other, and I know that this is difficult-'

'Emily, really-' Rachel sat forward, earnest, her eyes on Emily's face; she took hold of one Emily's hands '-it's okay. I'm happy for you guys. I'm happy for you.' The words sounded in her head, resonating through her. 'I am happy for you.'

'Yes, you, uh, you said that,' Emily said, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve her hand.

'Yes, but I really mean it. I'm not just saying it, I really... I-'

She sat, rigid, unaware of her surroundings, of Emily's nervous gaze. The white noise of confusion that had been the backdrop to everything for the last few weeks, the misery of her self-imposed denial, all of it ended, resolving itself into two clear syllables. Chandler. The even balance of his name was beautiful, she thought; and the enormity of her monumental stupidity astounded her.

She turned her eyes back to Emily. 'I have to find- I have to tell someone something.' She dropped Emily's hand, stood, headed for the door, stopped, crossed back to the table, bent and embraced the still-bemused Emily. 'Thank you,' Rachel told her sincerely, and left.

ooOoo

It had been, Chandler decided, a trip characterised by one ridiculous problem after another; although even he would have to admit that the humiliation of the rehearsal dinner speech had been no-one's fault but his own. And while he had, in the spirit of comradeship and solidarity, thought it would be nice if at least one other person in their group was having as bad a time as he was, he still found it deeply unfair that Monica should have been so badly upset by someone who clearly was a slur on the good name of morons everywhere.

'The guy was hammered, okay? There's no way you look like Ross's mother.'

She turned her face to him, blue eyes blazing. 'Then why would he say it?'

'Because he's crazy. Okay? He came up to me earlier and thanked me for my very moving performance in _Titanic_.'

Motion on his peripheral vision; he turned his head and found Rachel hovering, smiling at him uncertainly. Her eyes also seemed more blue than usual, bright and clear.

'Hey,' she said softly. 'What's-'

'Do I look like Ross' mother?' Monica demanded.

Rachel's eyes widened. 'Huh?'

'Well, do I? Do I look like the mother of Ross?'

'Oh, sweetie.' Rachel took hold of her arm sympathetically. 'I know what she's like, but she is your mom, too.'

Between Rachel's disingenuousness and Monica's outrage, it would have taken a heart of stone not to laugh. Chandler smirked into his champagne. Their conversation rose and fell with increasingly shrill tones.

'I'm a single mom with a thirty year old son!'

'But he was drunk, right?'

'So?'

He slipped away, pushing down any feelings of guilt he may have had at leaving Rachel to such a fate; but he had paid his dues on Monica-duty, he thought. He was prepared to do it, no doubt, but if there were another person, preferably of the female, best-friend-of-Monica persuasion about, they were far more qualified than he.

His eyes kept straying back to their corner of the room. Monica still looked voluble, Rachel looked-

She looked radiant.

He had half-expected her to be a wan, tragic figure trailing through the gathering, possibly pressing a lace handkerchief to her tear-stained cheeks.

You, he told himself with disgust, have read way too many of your mother's books.

She did look wonderful, though, even more so than usual.

For that alone, he should be pleased for her but somehow he found it a depressing proposition.

ooOoo

Rachel tracked Chandler's progress through the crowd helplessly. Monica was still edgy and even though Rachel felt like cheerfully consigning her to the arms of the nearest consoling male, she still had some some qualms, some ties of friendship.

She comforted, she placated, she plied with alcohol.

And Monica's complaints did subside; she even seemed to be smiling when she finally stumbled in the direction of the powder room. And Rachel drew a clear breath.

She stood on the edge of the crowd, watching the faces of people she didn't know and then finding the faces of the people she did. Joey, talking to one of the bridesmaids with his 'soap' earnest face; Ross-

She analysed the feeling.

Once it had been so painful; and then, even after it had stopped, she had told herself it was still painful. She was living proof of the adage that if you tell someone something for long enough they will eventually believe it. And she had believed it, for far longer than she should. She studied his face and its familiar lines and allowed herself one final pang of nostalgic fondness before it was all swept away.

He was her friend and she loved him; she would always love him as her friend.

She moved on, her gaze finding Chandler and suddenly it felt as though someone had caught hold of her heart and squeezed. She was light-headed, breathless. There it was, she thought, there it was. And this time she would get it right; this time there would be no mistakes; this time it wouldn't be too late.


	11. Act Four, Scene Three

_Scene Three: You Can't Always Get What You Want_

There had been no answer to her knock. Rachel had taken a chance, tried the door and found it unlocked; so much for security, she thought, and let herself in. She observed with detached interest that the boys' room was actually tidier than theirs. Curiouser and curiouser - or maybe London just had a strange effect on everyone. She sat on the edge of the one of the beds and wondered idly if it were Chandler's she had chosen - drawn to it unconsciously.

It had to be his, she decided in the end: she was sitting on the one that didn't have crumbs on the comforter.

She was driven from it in the end, her nerves wound tight, jangling along her spine. She stood, paced the room, her fists opening, closing, opening, like a cat flexing its claws. In her head she rehearsed, again, the little speech she had prepared. And she imagined how he would look, what he would say, the relief and then the happiness - please, God, let it be happiness - and then he would hold her-

And he would hold her. And she would hold him and she would never let him go.

She started at the knock at the door.

For a moment Rachel stood in the middle of the room, then tweaked at her skirt and crossed the floor, smiling; she imagined Chandler, sheepish, without his keys-

_'You really can't find yours?'_

_'Maybe they fell out somewhere en route.'_

_She stared at him in distress. 'How? How could they fall out? And how could you not notice?'_

_He blinked. 'Kinda had my hands full at the time.'_

_'Oh. Yeah.' She felt a flush spread through her body. She looked away from him and his still startlingly blue gaze. 'Ooh, we should look over here!' She wandered over to the area illumined by the street-lamp._

_'Uh, why?'_

_'Because this is where the light is.'_

_He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. 'Yeah, okay.'_

_Heads close together, they examined the circle of light._

_'Hey, don't you think that piece of gum looks like Elvis?'_

_'Nah, I'd say more Johnny Cash.'_

_'Huh... Yeah, actually, from that angle you're right.' A pause. 'I still can't see the keys, though.'_

_'Stupid keys.'_

_'Did you look in this pocket?'_

_'Which- Hey, Rach!'_

-of course, it might be Joey but she disallowed that thought. If there were any justice it would have to be Chandler.

She started again when she opened the door and met Monica's face.

'H-h-hey.'

'Oh. Hi.' Monica pushed past her, unsteady. 'Is Joey here?'

'Joey? He- No, no, he isn't.'

'Oh.'

Monica's shoulders seemed to sag a little; her eyes were unhealthily glassy, Rachel decided - unfocused. Their gaze finished their circuit of the room and settled on Rachel.

'Are you here for him, too?'

Rachel frowned. 'Too?'

'Aren't you here for Joey?'

'No, I came to talk to Chandler.'

'Oh, Chand-' Monica's head tilted. 'Chandler...' She said it thoughtfully, drawing out the name, slurring it. And in a blur of seconds that felt like years, Rachel saw Monica happily in Chandler's arms, saw them finishing the crossword puzzle and each other's sentences, saw them with their house in the suburbs and their beautiful, ultra-organised, wise-cracking kids-

'But Joey!' Rachel clapped her hands together, beamed inanely at her friend. 'You came to see Joey. Right?'

A pause.

'Right?'

'Right.' Monica stared past her. 'Is that a mini-bar?'

ooOoo

Head bowed, Chandler studied the smooth surface of the bar-top; wavering parallel lines of wood grain, overlaid by a patina of rings. He imagined a legion of glasses coated with condensation, all without coasters, all leaving their mark, and imagined Monica's horrified expression.

The thought of it made him smile.

His head was still bent, the cigarette that he hadn't got around to lighting bobbing at the corner of his mouth; his forehead rested heavily in the cup of his hand. And he started violently when an ice-bucket, complete with Champagne bottle, landed beside him. Joey grinned at him, the smile rapidly morphing to a grimace when he saw Chandler's cigarette.

'Dude.'

'Hey, Joe.'

'Are you smoking? You cannot smoke.'

'Au contraire, my friend. Not only is there no smoking ban here, they're actually encouraging you to smoke.' He gestured at the near-by ashtray. 'See? They provide you with all the accessories. London is finally good for something.' Chandler glanced at the bar tender. 'No offence'.

The man shrugged. 'Nothing to me, mate, I'm from Manchester.' He finished polishing a glass, wandered to the other end of the bar. Chandler watched him curiously, shrugged it off.

And would have returned to the contemplation of the bar-top, but for Joey's eyes boring into him. He looked instead at the ice-bucket. 'Going somewhere nice?'

The grin worked its way back across Joey's face. 'Got a date with the hot bridesmaid. Felicity.' He aimed for an English accent, mauling both it and her name. 'I've got the Champagne, she's getting the strawberries. I figure we'll slide into the tub together and y'know, eat the strawberries, drink the Champagne - I call that London Style.'

One corner of Chandler's mouth turned up. 'Sounds nice.' He closed his eyes against it, against all of it, only vaguely aware that Joey still hadn't gone, that he was still watching him.

A rustling sound, the creak of leather; Joey had hauled himself up onto the neighbouring stool. 'Dude, what is up? Why are you so bummed?'

Chandler straightened up, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, wincing as the filter took most of the skin from his lip, and made himself meet the dark eyes. 'It's nothing.'

'No, it's not. C'mon, man, I know you - something is up. You've been acting all weird the whole time we've been here.'

'I-' He stopped, shrugged. 'I'm just not all that crazy about London. Looking forward to going home.'

'Yeah...' Joey's gaze shifted past him, softening, homesickness written all over his open, honest face. He shook his head sharply. 'No, it's not that. It's more than that. You can tell me - we're best buds. Remember?'

The bracelet (or rather, bracelets) made forgetting an impossibility.

That and a host of other things.

And the need to tell just one other living person, finally, came on him like a tornado.

'Okay. Okay, but you have to promise me, _promise_ me that you will never repeat this to anyone, ever. I mean it, Joe! This is like, not even revealed on your deathbed stuff.'

Joey's eyes were wide. 'Yeah, yeah, okay, I promise.'

Chandler took a breath, steadied himself. 'I slept with Rachel.'

_'What?'_

Chandler glared at him threateningly.

'It's cool, I'm cool.' A pause. 'Dude! When?'

'When I got back from Yemen-'

_'From Yemen?'_

The bartender was staring in their direction.

'What did I say about not repeating this to anyone?'

'But-but- This is huge! I gotta go tell somebody-'

Chandler made a grab for his arm, heaving him back onto the stool. 'You promised me!'

'But I didn't know it would be this!'

They stared each other down, Chandler still gripping Joey's arm. Joey sighed, deflated.

'Are you going to be cool?'

'Yeah.'

Chandler removed his fingers one by one, watched Joey apprehensively.

'Okay,' Joey said conversationally. 'So, you slept with Rachel. That's ... not a big deal. Not at all.'

This, Chandler identified, was the soap version of nonchalant.

'And this was like a one-time thing?'

'That time. And one other. When Ross and Emily got engaged.'

'Du-' Joey cut himself off, took a moment, leant forward, both hands clasped together on the bar-top.

'So, are you guys together now?'

'No.' Chandler let out a breath of laughter, humourless. 'We are definitely not together. She's still in love with Ross.'

'But- But he's married now; and if you and she-'

'No! Look, I'm just the guy she goes with when she's either drunk or depressed, or both, but she doesn't want me. She's made that really clear, believe me. And yeah, I know, I shouldn't be moaning, I still got to sleep with a really hot chick. I should just be grateful for that.'

'No, Chandler...' Joey's voice was soft. 'This is Rachel. You can't be that way with her.'

Chandler looked at him. There was a knot he'd been carrying around in his chest for weeks, and under the sympathy from Joey's dark eyes it loosened slightly. 'Thanks, man. It's just- It's killing me not being with her. And I am glad that you got that audition and I am so happy that you got the part, but I really, really wish that you were the one who'd picked me up from the airport.'

The pause stretched into silence. 'I'm really sorry,' Joey said, his voice still soft.

More silence.

Chandler sat up straighter, forced his mouth to curl into an approximation of a smile. 'You should go. Uh, Felicity will be waiting.'

Joey hesitated, shrugged. 'Eh... I mean, she's hot, but y'know, you've had one bridesmaid...'

Chandler laughed slightly. 'You're a real romantic.'

Joey smiled happily. 'Hey, you want some Champagne?'

'Oh, yeah, 'cos _that _won't make us look gay at all.'

'Do you want some or not?'

'Yeah, okay.'

Joey rested a hand roughly on his shoulder for a moment, then reached for the bottle.

ooOoo

Rachel checked her watch again, sighed, eased herself up from the bed. 'Mon. Hey, Mon, sweetie, I think we should-' She stopped. 'Where did you get that?'

The brunette looked at her, defensive and slightly unfocused. She clutched the bottle of whisky. 'Chandler's suitcase.'

Rachel sighed. 'I think it's time we went.' Monica pouted at her, but put the bottle down on the table. Carefully. And a question that had formed somewhere at the back of Rachel's mind over an hour ago finally made its way to the fore. 'Why did you want to see Joey, anyway?'

A mumble, eyes cast down.

'What?'

Another mumble, Monica addressing a patch of carpet.

'Sweetie, I can't understand a word.'

Monica's head tossed back, her eyes blazing. 'I just wanted to feel to good about myself, okay? Is that too much to ask?'

Rachel's frown slowly cleared. 'You mean-'

'Yes! I know we're friends, but this is Joey, it wouldn't get all messed up.'

'Oh, Mon...' Rachel stared at her, horrified. 'Okay, that's it, we're getting you back to your room and you're going straight to bed.'

'But-'

'No! The last thing you need right now is to make some drunken mistake that you'll only end up regret-' She bit down on her lip. Monica looked at her expectantly.

'What?'

'Nothing.' She took hold of Monica's arm and tugged her, unresisting, out of the room.


	12. Act Five, Scene One

_Act Five: The One With The Confession _

_Scene One: But Sometimes You Get What You Need_

The May sunshine speared through the cloud, finding its way to illumine the worn stone of the church walls and beneath eyelids to sensitive, reddened eyes. Monica squinted against it.

'Big night, huh?' Chandler watched her with amusement.

'Nyargh...'

'Let me guess - too much blood in your alcohol system this morning?'

Monica gazed at him blearily. 'I am never drinking again.'

'Famous last words.'

She groaned, incomprehensible, rested her forehead against his shoulder. He patted the back of her head.

'Don't mess up my hair.'

He moved his hand. 'And that, kids, is why you shouldn't drink.'

Monica groaned again, looked up at him. He moved the errant hair from her cheek, smoothing it back into place. 'You know you're the second-most beautiful hungover person I've ever seen in real life?'

One corner of her mouth turned up. 'Who's the first?'

He smiled slightly. 'A guy's got to have some secrets, Mon.'

They stood together, slowly shuffling into position as the procession was made ready.

'C'mon, people, we need two neat lines!' Monica clapped her hands together briskly, flinched at the sound of her own raised voice.

'You know, if the chef thing doesn't work out,' Chandler told her, handing back her bouquet, 'you could always start up as a wedding planner.'

'Think so, huh?'

'Either that or a drill-sergeant.' He received her elbow lightly his stomach and grinned at her. 'Come on.' She linked her arm through his, still leaning against him a little more heavily than usual.

'You sure you're okay?'

'Uh-huh.' She nodded. 'Just not a night that I plan on repeating anytime soon. Oh, and I'm sorry I drank your whisky.'

'That's-' He blinked. 'What? How did you get hold of that? Were you in my room? Were you in my suitcase?'

Her lips pulled back in an apologetic, almost-charming smile. 'Uh, yes and yes. And, sorry.'

'What were you doing in there, anyway?'

Monica sucked in a breath, another wince flashing across her face. 'Nothing. I was just- Nothing. Hey, did Rachel find you last night?'

'Rachel?' He heard the sharpness in his voice, cleared his throat and said again, casually, 'Rachel?'

'Yeah, she was looking for you - I think it was important.' She frowned, trying to catch at memories, shook her head. 'She waited for you a long time.'

'Really.'

Drunk or depressed and last night Rachel would probably have been both, he thought. Same old, same old. Monica, he noticed, was still frowning. He smiled at her again, uneasily.

'What's going on with you two?'

'Who two?'

She rolled her eyes. 'You and Rachel two. You're being weird - both of you.'

They were moving. Thank God in His mercy, they were moving. Almost through the church doors-

'Well?'

'Well what?' he hissed it out of the corner of his mouth.

'What is going on?'

'Nothing!'

He smiled vaguely at on of the seated guests.

'Liar,' Monica muttered back. She glanced at him, glanced again, the gaze staying on his face and her eyes widened slightly. 'Oh, sweetie...' She squeezed his arm gently. 'Sorry,' she mouthed at him.

Sorry. A word of regret, of condolence. Sorry. Something deplorable, unfortunate. A sorry state of affairs. Yes, sorry was the word.

They walked down the aisle and it felt nice, Monica clinging onto him. Or maybe he was clinging onto her. Monica, one of his favourite people. Why couldn't it have been Monica? But it wasn't and even for that he felt-

He smiled wryly.

Sorry.

She had done a wonderful job with the church, now that he looked at it. The flowers, the candles, something beautiful fashioned out of the wreckage; more beautiful, perhaps, in contrast to the surrounding mess. Love among the ruins.

He took his place by Ross' side, tried to paste on a smile. And he didn't try to find her, didn't try to seek her out (if anything, he tried so hard not to look for her) but his eyes were drawn to the face, glowing, in the midst of all the others. She looked radiant. Gazing at Ross, her face was alight.

Strange, that she should look so happy. She was a generous person, but not so generous that seeing Ross' happiness should bring her so much joy, that she should still gaze at him with such adoration.

Well, maybe not quite at Ross, Chandler decided when Ross moved a few steps to meet Emily and Rachel's gaze didn't follow him. She had been looking in the vicinity of Ross, in his general direction, but she wasn't looking _at _Ross.

The thought seemed to come from very far away, battling its way through disbelief and denial. She wasn't looking at Ross, because she was looking at him.

ooOoo

Rachel sat on the third stair from the bottom, watching the gathering through the banisters. It had been a lovely service. She was fairly certain it had been a lovely service; she hadn't really paid much attention. Studying Chandler had proved to be far more fascinating, taking in all the tiny details of him she had never noticed before.

No, never _allowed_ herself to notice before.

And he had kept looking at her, his eyes finding hers. Curiosity there, and confusion.

'Hey.'

She started, looked up, and the blood flared into her cheeks.

'Hey.' It was a croak.

Chandler, hands in his pockets, tilted his head, said conversationally: 'So, Monica said you wanted to talk to me.'

Rachel swallowed hard. 'I do, I-I really ... really do.'

He stood looking down at her for a moment, then joined her on the stair. She made room for him, her knee bumping against his.

'Hold on.' He moved up one step; she twisted around, facing him.

'Okay... Okay. Chandler-' Rachel took his hand between both of hers. Strong hands, long and graceful, warm between fingers. She took another breath, looked up at him again and tried to remember the speech she had been rehearsing. 'Chandler... Oh, God, this is so hard.'

'If you want I can come back later.'

'No!' She grasped his hand harder.

'Joking, Rach. And, by the way, ow.'

'Huh? Oh, sorry.' She loosened her hold on him fractionally.

'Okay, I can do this. I have something to say; quite a lot to say, actually, so I'd really love it if-if you wouldn't say anything until I'm done. Okay?'

He nodded.

Another breath taken in, released. Chandler watched her patiently.

'First thing is, I am so so sorry that I hurt you. I know I did and that is so not what I ever wanted to do. I mean, you're one of my best friends and I never meant to do anything like that. Hurt you, I mean. I didn't want that. And I know I've been stupid, and so wrapped up in myself and this-this crazy obsession I've had with Ross. And that was just ... easier, you know? I was used to that. I wasn't used to you and it scared me. A lot. It was just simpler to still be the girl who was crazy about Ross instead of being- I mean, me and Ross were that whole big thing and it was painful but it was comfortable and-and it took falling in love with you to cure me of that. And I am. Cured. And in love with you. And I think we could have something great if ... if you wanted that.' His hand between hers still felt strong and steady; hers were shaking. Everything was shaking. Rachel started at him. 'Okay, Chandler, you can talk now. Please, you have to say something.'

He blinked, roused himself. 'Yeah, I-I know but I don't want to say anything that will mess this up, so-'

His free hand caught the curve of her cheek, pulling her to him. And his lips on hers were sweet and firm and promising.

'Yeah, you do!'

They both looked up and found Joey grinning down at them, Monica a little behind him. She was smiling.

Rachel brushed the back of her hand against her eyes.

'So much for our big secret,' she said.

'Man, I hate secrets,' Joey told her.

'Love how you're able to make it all about you, Joe,' Chandler said. Joey grinned again.

'So, are you two, uh, going to tell Ross about this?' Monica looked pointedly in her brother's direction.

'Uh...' Rachel bit her lip.

Chandler shifted restlessly. 'You know, maybe we'll wait 'til he's back from his honeymoon. I mean, with a bit of luck he'll be so loved-up he might not even notice.'

Monica's eyebrows flickered. 'Good luck with that.'

'Gee, thanks.'

'He'll just have to deal with it,' Rachel stated firmly. 'He's got Emily and- Look, look how happy they are. It won't be that big a deal.'

Monica's lips pushed out and in, doubtful.

'Failing that we'll just, y'know, go on the lam.'

'Ooh, to Paris!' Rachel's eyes gleamed. 'That would be so cool.'

Chandler laughed slightly, moving her hair away from her shoulder, his fingers grazing lightly against the curve of her neck. She shivered, leaning into him.

And Joey and Monica watched them indulgently.

'Hey, guys, a little privacy?'

Joey's face screwed up. 'But you guys are so cute!'

Chandler sighed. 'I can't believe I'm using this line, but do you want to get out of here?'

Rachel nodded happily. 'I really do.'


	13. Act Five, Scene Two

_Scene Two: Just The Two Of Us_

They made it to Chandler's room, hand-in-hand. Rachel had rested her head against his shoulder - such a nice, comfortable shoulder, she thought. And she fit there perfectly. When his lips brushed her hair she smiled, curling into him a little more.

Inside his room, she leaned her back against the door and he stood in front of her, his one hand resting lightly on her hip. His thumb moved in small circles, caressing her minutely through the silky fabric.

She raised her hands to his face, tracing its lines with her fingers, gently, barely touching; she watched the blue of his eyes deepen but it still came as a shock when he pulled her against him, fierce, her gasp of surprise lost in the warmth of his mouth. The familiar contours of his body felt hard, unyielding. She held onto him, feeling like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her up. An overwhelming, wholly pleasant sensation.

When they parted and looked at each other, they were both breathing hard.

'Wait,' he said suddenly, 'wait.'

'Wait?' She licked the taste of him off her lips. 'Why wait? No, no waiting.'

His face creased in a smile. 'Hot girl who doesn't want to wait - this is the best day ever.'

She swatted his arm.

'Just a little bit, tiny. Look, go in the bathroom-'

'Huh?'

'-and run a bath-'

'What?'

'And I'll be back soon. Really soon. You won't even know I've gone.' He moved her away from the door, opened it, came back, kissed her fervently, slipped out.

Rachel stared at the closed door for a moment. Guys had funny quirks that women would never understand, this she knew. But this... This was a new one. She wandered into the bathroom, turned on the taps, sat on the edge of the tub. Out of habit she emptied in a bottle of bubble bath. It was, perhaps, some subtle form of revenge on his part, making her believe that he wanted her. Maybe even now he was back downstairs, having a good laugh with Joey over-

The sound of the door opening and closing again brought her back. She peered through the steam and made out Chandler's form in the bathroom doorway.

'Is that Champagne?'

'Uh-huh. And strawberries. I stole them from the reception.' His head tilted again. 'Actually, I don't think it was even Ross' reception, but it was definitely _a _ reception.'

Rachel, still balanced precariously, felt herself sagging with relief. 'So, what's with...'

Chandler juggled his booty in his arms. 'Joey told me about this thing with a bath and Champagne and strawberries. He called it London Style - I thought it sounded nice.'

'It does.' She watched him. 'Are you going to put those down?'

He placed them on the vanity chest, carefully, then still stood, his hands in his pockets. Rachel cleared her throat.

'Are you, uh, are you going to come over here?'

'Yeah.' He nodded. 'Yeah, I am. But I just wanted to look at you a little bit.' He was silent for a moment. 'God, Rachel, you are so beautiful.'

She was glad of the steam, the way it hid the flush spreading across her face. More than her face. Her entire body flushed under his words, his gaze.

He crossed the room softly, sat beside her. One arm around her shoulders, his fingers playing the with the strap of her dress. It moved, by millimetres, across her skin. Rachel leaned into him, her face turning up to his, the hazy air between them heavy and rich.

'Hey, Rach.'

Her eyes drifted open again. 'What?'

His fingers were still. 'I am so glad you picked me up from the airport.'

She smiled. 'Me too.'

The End


	14. Author Note

I had meant to do this ages ago but, y'know, forgot...

So, here we have, as we did for _Love Plus One_, a 'soundtrack' for the fic. If you are interested, it is available to download, after the usual prefixes, here: megaupload(dot)com/?d=D9Z2SIZE


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